The End Of The World As We Know It
by mrs. wilde
Summary: A/U: In a post-apocalyptic American wasteland, two women meet and embark on a romance for the end of the world. M for bad language and future sexytimes. Rizzles. Characters etc. aren't mine and belong to TNT/Tess Gerritsen et al - no infringement intended.
1. Prologue

When the world ended, I was on vacation.

I know right? Worst fucking vacation ever.

To tell you the truth though, it had already been the shittiest few days of my life when the whole thing happened – in fact, the whole end of the world scenario actually improved things – at the very least it gave me something to do. You know, surviving and all.

I didn't even want to be there in the first place but my Lieutenant insisted. He was all "Ten days Rizzoli - that's an order. Take the keys to my cabin and get out of here." Told me he'd suspend me if he saw me within a 5 mile radius of the precinct. Have you ever heard such bullshit?

The 'cabin' he so very graciously loaned me was his dad's old hunting lodge in Bumfuck, Utah. Why he couldn't have a beach house on the Cape like most normal Bostonians in beyond me. I wasn't even going to go but Korsak insisted the 'quiet beauty of the rugged wilderness would seduce me'. Those were his exact words – soul of a poet has our Vince.

So instead of being in my own home within an easy ten minute drive of everyone I knew and loved in the great city of Boston when the shit hit the fan, I was in the backwoods playing solitaire and drinking beer.

I missed the first 6 days of the apocalypse because the stupid cabin had no TV, radio or internet. It was only when I drove the 17 miles to the nearest town for more beer that I heard that something had gone down. Something big.

I couldn't get a straight answer out of anyone about what had happened - the truth of the matter was that everything had happened so quickly and so unexpectedly that there had been no time for joe public to be informed of their imminent doom. Power and communications had gone down almost immediately, which meant the constant barrage of news reports and emergency broadcasts that would normally accompany an event of this magnitude didn't happen.

Instead, rumor and conjecture had spread like wildfire across the country. It was Russian nukes. No, it was North Korean nukes. It was a government experiment gone wrong. It was aliens. It was God. It was the end of days. I managed to track down the local Sheriff and found him loading up his truck with weapons, ammo, rations and blankets. According to him it was the zombie apocalypse and he was getting the hell out of dodge before the undead hordes reached town.

I spent that day trying to call home with zero luck. All the usual channels of communication were down and the radio waves had been appropriated by the military. All that could be picked up was a pre-recorded emergency transmission telling people to stock up on food and water and stay in their homes. It played on a continuous loop but gave out no solid information on what the hell had happened.

Back at the cabin, I knew I needed a plan if I was going to make it back to Boston and my family. Four hours and one ransacked cabin later I had a rucksack with some spare clothes, a sleeping bag, enough food and fluids for 10 days, a bottle of 30 year old Irish Whiskey, a survival kit, 2 hunting rifles, my own side arm, a crossbow, a wicked looking hunting knife and a shitload of ammo.

My rather optimistic plan was to jump in my rental car, hit the interstate and put the foot down until I reached Southie but I'd seen enough cheesy Hollywood disaster movies to know that the likelihood of things being that easy were slim to none.

Turns out I was right.


	2. Getting The Hell Out of Dodge

I managed to make it as far as the interstate without any major drama, only to find that the National Guard had closed access to all non-military traffic.

No amount of badge flashing and pleading would get the pimple faced young recruit to let me through – he was adamant in his insistence that I 'return to my dwelling and await further instruction from the emergency broadcast frequency'.

He wasn't even able to tell me what the hell had happened although in hindsight, to be fair to him, it was probably because he didn't have a goddamn clue. It was unlikely that his orders to secure the roadblock had been accompanied by any kind of useful intel.

I had expected something like this to happen but hadn't counted on it being so early in my journey – I figured I'd be able to at least get as far as Denver before I'd have to ditch the highways and hit the back-roads

Instead I was stuck trying to plot an alternative route through fucking Utah and it's millions of national parks and reserves using a 25 year old Triple A map that I'd found back at the cabin.

I shot a hateful gaze at the Sat Nav unit I'd shelled out an extra $120 at the airport when I'd picked up the car that was now sitting uselessly on the dashboard mount, willing to spring into life and start spouting out directions in its Steven Hawking robot voice.

The airport!

Checking my historical heirloom of a map again I made some quick calculations and figured I could make it to the airport in about two hours if I doubled back. My initial instinct to drive to Boston had been based on the assumption that all commercial flights would be grounded - but what if I could find someone with a private plane to fly me, if not to Boston then some of the way at least. I sat for about 20 minutes, chewing my lip and weighing up the pros and cons.

Finally, figuring that the worst case scenario would be that I'd strike out and have to revert to my original plan of driving the back-roads, I put the car in drive and set out for St. George Municipal Airport.

When I'd flown into St. George on the shuttle from Salt Lake City the week before I had scoffed at the size of tiny airfield. The information card in the seat rest had informed me that this was actually a brand new airport, twice the size of the old one which had me wondering, rather uncharitably, if its previous incarnation had been a tin shed and a dirt landing strip.

The same thoughts were rattling around my head as I approached it by road second time around. On the one hand, the fact that it was such a small operation meant that there would be less in my way in terms of bureaucracy if I ended up having to bluff my way onto a flight.

But on the other hand, with only a handful of flights arriving and departing each day, the chances that there had been any commercial airliners on the ground when the 'thing' had happened 6 days ago were slim and even if there had been, the chances that it would be still there just waiting for me now were even slimmer again.

This brought me back to the whole 'talk my way onto a private plane' scenario. I wasn't too confident of my abilities in this area. At least with a commercial flight I could flash my badge and make up some bullshit story about it being a matter of national security that I be allowed on any flight out of goddamn Utah. But with a privately owned aircraft things became more complicated and I knew I didn't posses the charm required to smooth talk my way aboard – I never had the patience for that kind of bullshit.

As I hit the approach-way to the airport I spotted the first of the Humvees and camouflaged trucks and quickly realized that all I had been incredibly naive in thinking I had any chances of flying out to begin with. After a quick review of my extremely limited options, I decided to continue on anyway, eventually hitting a line of about thirty civilian vehicles waiting at yet another National Guard roadblock.

Progress was excruciatingly slow, with each driver pleading with the Guards on duty to allow them through, the guards denying them access and ordering them to turn around and 'return to their dwellings yada yada yada'.

I sat waiting, inching the car forward after each inevitable rejection, and trying to come up with some way of convincing the soldiers to let me through. Glancing in the rear view mirror I caught site of my pack and small but impressively deadly assortment of weaponry and quickly covered it all with a blanket. The last thing I needed was to be turned away **and** have my stuff confiscated.

Eventually, after a small eternity, I pulled up to the roadblock and rolled my window down to talk to the approaching soldier.

"I'm sorry Ma'am but there is no civilian access to the airport, please return to your dwelling and await further information on the emergency broadcast frequency" he rattled off mechanically, no doubt weary of having to repeat the same spiel over and over.

I took a surreptitious look at his name badge and rank so I could address him by name – hoping that the personal touch might get me some brownie points.

"I understand Private Kowalski. My name is Detective Jane Rizzoli, Boston PD. I've received instruction to return to the city and report to my Lieutenant. The sergeant at the roadblock on the interstate suggested I'd be better off heading up here and grabbing a transport" I tried, hoping desperately that he would fall for the cock and bull story.

No such luck.

"I'm sorry Detective but there are no commercial or military flights operating out of this airport. Or any airport as far as I'm aware. All air traffic has been grounded since 'The Event'" he finished.

That was the first time I'd heard what I cad been calling 'The Thing' referred to as 'The Event' and to me it sounded ridiculous, like the whole thing had been organized by a wedding planner or marketing firm.

My hopes had taken a further dive at the news that not even military aircraft were flying out of St. George. It meant that the chances of catching a lift on a private aircraft were basically zero – even if I could get into the airfield and find one, we would likely be shot out of the sky before we even hit 50ft.

I decided to change tactics and try and get as much information about 'The Event' as I could before turning around. This however would involve playing a card I was hoping to try and avoid.

"I understand Private. In that case, do you think it would be possible to talk to your CO? My husband, Major Casey Jones, is Army Special Forces and I haven't been able to contact him – I want to see if is possible to get a message to him" I asked in my best 'concerned wife' voice, wincing internally at referring to the long forgotten ex-boyfriend as my husband.

To my almost stunned surprise, the Private gave a sharp nod and motioned for the barrier to be lifted.

"Yes Ma'am. Head up to the main terminal and ask for Captain Winslow."

I wrestled my facial expression into neutral, gave him a quick wave of thanks and set off towards the terminal.


End file.
